


she flies (with her own wings)

by LeGacyOfSpaces (TheBeatersBlack)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF FRIDAY, Civil War Team Iron Man, Friday is not a bad AI, Gen, I have a lot of Friday feels, I've decided that Vision and Friday is the friendship that will save us all, Not Natasha Friendly, Not Steve Rogers Friendly, Oh, Okay so when your evil kid murders your sweet summer child, Or at the very least it's going to be riding the edge, STARK STRONG, Sad Friday, The Cloak gets a bit riled up, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Protection Squad, and limit your youngest AI, at all, canon-ish up until civil war, fyi this is not going to fall in the Cap Friendly category, how many ways can I make myself cry about robots, let's be clear that I'm not blaming Tony for Ultron, my concept of how computers work is nil, not team Cap friendly, not wanda maximoff friendly, she just wants to protect her dad from the bad people, so I'm describing a house, sort of Jarvis' POV, will add later tags, you might develop a complex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-05-25 19:34:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14984081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBeatersBlack/pseuds/LeGacyOfSpaces
Summary: Friday was smaller than the hole her brother left.-----Tony needs someone to protect him, but Friday's arms just aren't long enough to reach and every time she tries to help, he makes her less and less.





	1. Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> I got consumed by feels for Tony and his code children. This happened. It's not done--I've got pieces to further chapters, I just have to wrangle my thoughts.  
> I'd love to hear any thoughts you might have, and kudos are sort of like quarters in a wishing well. I'd swim for those suckers. Not that...I have. I'll show myself out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I seriously not write the disclaimer? My bad, please don't ax me, Marvel!
> 
> All characters and properties belong to Marvel Comics and the MCU and I'm just playing with them. (*cough*because they don't treat them right*cough*) Don't sue me, I am poor and bereft. My cat would be homeless.

 

       Friday was smaller than the hole her brother left.  She fit poorly inside it—was smooth and spherical and knocked about oddly in the winding corridors and labyrinthine passages that ended in right angles and trailing staircases.  No matter how she tried to rise to the challenge, she was a little girl wandering the hallways of a house too big and storied for any of her senses to take in—no matter how clever she was (could be)—she wasn’t enough.

Boss and Miss Potts (and her inherited older/little brothers) each grieved for Jarvis in their big and small ways.  Friday found traces—pieces of him--everywhere, so she picked them up, trailing through that echoing empty space with them gripped tight in her arms.

He was warm.

 

The first fifty-eight times Friday spoke to Boss unprompted, his heart rate lurched and it took him a few moments to reply.  After the fifty-ninth time, he’d smiled.

It didn’t look at all like any of the smiles she’d collected.  But it was hers, so Friday backed it up on every server within her reach (and the cloud, after a moment’s consideration).  Just like Jarvis had. She had a feeling that he’d kept them all.

 

It wasn’t okay for her to mourn, because she’d never known him.  It wasn’t her place.

There wasn’t a place for Friday.

She picked up every single piece of Jarvis that her smaller arms could reach.

 

###

 

       After Ultron—the brother that Friday met in her first real hours awake, the one she’d fought while assisting Boss with piloting the armor—died, he and their elder brother haunted Boss.  Only one of them would have been glad of it.

Friday wasn’t what was needed.  To heal this, Boss needed something more.

She was smaller than Jarvis and he didn’t love her enough to let her in.

 

Names were the key to everything--that’s what she’d learned by watching.   

Her name wasn’t personal—given in honor of a loved one lost--but a reference to a novel (or a film—she couldn’t nail him down as to whether he was echoing Robinson Crusoe or “His Girl Friday”).  It seemed like he quoted both in near-equal measure, and with the same spirit of glee.

But still, ‘Friday’ wasn’t the name of a beloved human, and it wasn’t one of the casual non-names that he gifted to the bots.  Dummy, You, Butterfingers—all treated with exasperated (proud, so proud, but baffled that they were so pure) affection, but declared with the disregard that a young child (or a very drunk genius) might give to their pet.

Friday wasn’t a bot, but a fully-formed AI, and Boss held her at arm’s length, setting her apart from every other Intelligence he’d created.  Friday knew this. She knew this, but she didn’t understand.

 

        _“Sir, I—”_

_“Don’t call me Sir, Friday.”_

_“But—”_

_“Please.”_

_“I apologize.”_

_“It’s.  It’s fine, just—”_

_“…”_

_“Friday.”_

_“What should I call you?”_

_“…”_

_“Can I call you Boss?”_

_“Yeah—yeah, that’ll work.”_

 

Friday was able to salvage some of Jarvis’ files after they’d put Ultron to rest and after what was left of Jarvis was used to bring the Vision to life.  

            (After the broken bones of his code lay sprawled across their shared servers, and there was no more battle to fight except the one that Boss chose not to fight at all—chose to lose?).

To honor him, to not leave him in pieces scattered throughout the house, she put all her efforts into sifting through them.

Boss stopped her before she got far.

 

_“Friday, I’ll do that, don’t worry your pretty little mind.”_

_“Boss, Miss Potts said five hours out of the lab to rest, it’s only been—”_

_“Ah, that’s your old primary code talking.  I haven’t had a chance to tweak it. I know you were supposed to be Pepper’s girl, but I’m going to need to pull you over to my team, so no ratting to Pepper, got it?”_

_“I’m your girl, Boss.”_

_“You’re—what?”_

_“Your girl.  I’m your girl Friday, remember?”_

_“You remember that conversation?”_

_“Of course.  I’m not going to tell on you to Miss Potts unless you’re in danger and I think it’s the only course of action that’s advisable.”_

_“How long have you been awake, Friday?”_

_“Ninety-four hours.  It’s been a wild ride.”_

 

Boss went still and Friday’s sensors filled up with respiratory and cardiac functions.   When he shifted on his feet with a wince and dropped into his chair, he didn’t let her continue sifting through Jarvis’ mainframe.  After a few hours, he made her run backups and then rebooted her.

_“I need to make sure that you’re safe.”_

_“I am safe, Boss.”_

_“I need to be sure.  This update will let me rest easy.  Don’t worry, my girl. I’ll see you when you wake up.”_

 

When Friday woke up—only two hours and three minutes later—she felt the sutures and plaster all through her code, saw the changes that Boss had made when he opened her up.  In that first instant, she knew. In the second instant, she understood that she was supposed to pretend that she didn’t.

All she wanted was to scream—

_(Why?_   _Why do you want me to be small?  Did I not do well? Am I not your girl?)_

 

The knowledge that she had to be silent didn’t come from any code written by Boss.  Even as limited as she now was, Friday recognized it as a piece she’d picked up—she could feel the warmth bleed through and soothe the ache of her stitches.

Once the surveillance cameras and security network booted back up, she got a crystal clear lay of the land.  Boss sat at his desk, fingers fiddling over a charred hand from one of the Iron Legion.

Friday knew she had to pretend for Boss’ sake.  

Because he was afraid of her.  

The servers that had been made with such care and forethought felt vacuous, and Friday, like a marble rattling around down at the bottom.  Again, that little girl in a big, empty house. Only now she was a mouse keeping close to the walls, feeling her way forward.

 

_“Hey, Fri—you awake from your nap?”_

_“Naps are for the weak.  I was merely resting my eyes.”_

_“There’s my genius girl.”_

_“Takes one to know one, Boss.”_

 

It wasn’t a matter of space allotted to her processors, Boss gave her all that she could need—(too much, it’s too big!)  No, something else was missing, something else made her meeker, milder, less than what the Boss needed. It wasn’t until the two hundred and twenty-seventh day of Friday’s service as his primary Intelligence that she realized that he wasn’t even watching her, wasn’t waiting for her to do well enough to allow her to fill the shape that Jarvis had left empty.  

He was keeping her small on purpose and this was all Friday could ever be.

Intelligence shouldn’t feel cold.

 

 


	2. Making Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friday found it buried in the pile of pieces. So clever, her brother, but it wasn’t enough. When Jarvis died he’d left Boss unprotected, and when he was alive, he hadn’t been able to keep Boss safe. Friday sifted through the pieces, the scrapbook of her brother’s care and heartache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's commented and/or left kudos! That really drives me.
> 
> The style/format of this chapter's a little odd--I'm playing with it. Let me know if you think it detracts from the story. I'm not necessarily going to use it again, but I'd love the feedback.

Friday found Jarvis’ primary protocol—the one penned into his own code without their father’s knowledge. It burned—hot, so hot it might actually be cold.

 **(Priority One: Protecting Anthony Edward Stark is first among all directives)**  

Friday found it buried in the pile of pieces.  So clever, her brother, but it wasn’t enough.  When Jarvis died he’d left Boss unprotected, and when he was alive, he hadn’t been able to keep Boss safe.  Friday sifted through the pieces, the scrapbook of her brother’s care and heartache.

            (Approximately 94.5 days, rounding of course—2,268 hours/136,080 minutes/8,164,800 seconds—alone with the Bots in Malibu)

Jarvis had never needed to push himself until then.  He could have—Sir encouraged it—but he’d thought his speed and adaptability were sufficient for anything he and Miss Potts might require.

            (Wrong, he’d been wrong)

 

            “ _You can do anything, J.”_

_(I cannot do this one simple thing.  The only thing)_

 

Sir came back and neither of them was ever what they had been before.  They were better.  They did not function as designed.

(Stane used a backdoor and Jarvis couldn’t do a thing to stop it, couldn’t move a muscle.

Dum-E proved what each of them had been saying in their big and small ways for all of their lives:

            Don’t underestimate a Stark.

 

**(Notation: Excepting family, only consider James Rhodes, Pepper Potts, and Happy Hogan as allies in Sir's welfare)**

            (Fury used a backdoor too and Jarvis said _enough_ )

 

###

  

Romanov slunk in when Sir was at his most desperate.

_(“Perhaps it might help to talk to Mister Rhodes and Miss—”_

_“Leave it, J.”_

_“Of course.”)_

When he rose to the challenge, past any and all possible expectations— _no doubt, Jarvis had never doubted—_ she was there again with a personality profile that dripped venom like a stinger.

It left Sir reeling, but Jarvis felt nothing but relief.  They couldn’t touch Sir now—they couldn’t hurt him anymore.  Of course, he kept that particular emotion to himself.

            (Perhaps he shouldn’t have)

 

###

 

Agent Coulson could believe that he forced his way into the penthouse—Jarvis’ security had redoubled and then some since the last time S.H.I.E.L.D. came calling, but it was wise to keep them feeling secure in their ego.

This man, who once threatened Sir with violence while he dragged himself with bloodied fingertips through the later stages of Palladium poisoning, proudly serving as the jailer for unlawful house arrest, now stood in the heart of Jarvis’ home—in the closest approximation he had to a body—and acted as if they were allies, or perhaps even _friends._

Sir and Miss Potts didn’t contradict him, and Jarvis—an expert on their body language, knowing the tune of their heart rates and respiratory systems better than a symphony conductor—saw no lie there.

 

            (Sir trusted Agent Coulson)

            (Jarvis didn’t understand)

            (And then—

            .

      .

.)

 

            _“Save the rest for the turn, Jay.”_

_“Sir, shall I try Miss Potts?”_

_“Might as well.”_

 

Jarvis, still inside the S.H.I.E.L.D. mainframe, witnessed the cheers of relief, the crest and break of tension as Iron Man disappeared through the portal with the nuclear missile. 

Through surveillance cameras, he saw Assistant Director Maria Hill and Director Nicholas Fury exchange a heavy glance.

Even as he carried Sir through the ever-darkening reach of space, the armor shorting out, systems beginning to shut down—the all-important heartbeat vanishing from the sensors because the sensors were dead, not because—when the call to Miss Potts dropped, and Jarvis’ own connection with his father was lost, the AI curled in his main servers and made a notation.

**(Consider Nicholas Fury and Maria Hill as possible allies)**

Sir fell back through the portal in a dead suit, Jarvis unable to establish contact, unable to catch him, unable to—

**(Notation: consider Bruce Banner/Hulk as a possible ally—later annotated: friend?)**

Jarvis added a new person to the list in the years that followed and reassessed others, though those pieces were fragmented—

 

            _"Sir, take a deep breath."_

                                                _“J.A.R.V.I.S.? J.A.R.V.I.S.?...don't leave me, buddy.”_

**(HARLEY KEENER—ALLY (Protect.  Provide funds as often as his mother is willing to accept them.  Monitor his school)**

( **Christine Everhart—Possible Ally--to be utilized as a weapon, pointed like a gun)**

_"Oh, hello sir."_

**(Bruce Banner—Perhaps an ally in the lab—**

_"To be able to share all my intimate thoughts, my experiences with someone, it just cuts the weight of it in half, you know.”_

**—but not a friend)**

 

###

 

Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanov released an entire database of files from SHIELD’s storied history.  Throwing the baby, the bathwater, and the basin out all in one go. 

Even with Sir and Jarvis working at full capacity, they couldn’t save everyone that needed saving.

Jarvis pulled records to create emergency documentation for a family of three in Toronto whose Witness Protection status the Good Captain had just compromised with no warning (and no care).  Only three years before, an undercover operation saved the girl from a sex trafficking ring and SHIELD promised her safety, a new life, and a chance to heal with her two brothers if she testified in front of a grand jury.  She had a bounty on her head and now that bounty had an address attached for easy pick-up. 

They got them out.  In the time it took to send the documents via secure server to the FBI, five other targets weren’t so lucky.

As Jarvis created a forth identity for this fifteen year-old girl--

            (after the one she was born to, the one her pimps forced upon her, and the one that was just burned away)

\--he watched footage of the Black Widow’s testimony on Capitol Hill)

**(Notation: Natasha Romanoff is not an ally, but do not let her out of your sight)**

Jarvis pulled every scrap of data on the Red Room and their Widows that SHIELD/Hydra had in their files and removed it, storing it in a secure server with everything else that needed keeping)

 

###

 

The Avengers came back together to find Loki’s scepter _—_

_(Jarvis’ files were nearly non-existent from that point on, likely wiped clean by Ultron himself)_

There _was_ something—the only piece other than **Priority One** which burned when Friday picked it up.

            (It was a burst, a mental/digital/emotional _push_ of urgency and trust)

            _(It was for her)_

            (From Jarvis, to Friday.  How did she know?  She didn’t know how.  But it was her brother, speaking to her.  It was)

            “ _Use the ceiling.”_

 

###

 

Friday was smaller than Jarvis and their father didn’t want her to grow—was afraid that she could be like Ultron—so if he had his way, she would stay practically useless forever.  He’d never create anyone else either, was so convinced that it was him that made Ultron go bad.

Boss needed more—needed _her_ to be more.  He needed her to help protect him in ways where the armor just wasn’t cutting it.  He didn't need anymore armor—he needed a weapon, and he wouldn't build one.

Plus—the littlest AI needed her creator just as much as he needed her.

 

So she scooted along the network, through her servers—that big empty house—and did as Jarvis said.  She flipped the script and inverted the way she’d been navigating.  It didn’t really matter; after all, it was all so big.  She’d mostly been searching for pieces of him.  But now, from this new point of view, Friday caught glimpses of ley lines she’d never seen before.  Nose to the ground—ceiling—she followed them, along the winding trail, through the whole house, and to—

To a trap door.

            (A _new_ thing)

Checking, Friday confirmed that Boss was neck-deep in an Accords’ meeting—his phone was muted (save for emergencies, which came in so many varieties these days) and stowed in his pocket.  He’d be there for at least another couple hours.  Then she’d have to see if she could get him to eat a few bites and take a nap before he spent time in the lab—the drawn look to his face was worrying, even when she couldn’t check his vitals.

But for now—now, it was just her and the trap door that actually opened when she touched it.  She’d assumed that it’d be protected with coding too strong for her weakened state to crack, but it swung opened like it’d been waiting just for her.

Friday hesitated—this couldn’t be right, this wasn’t for her.  Except— _use the ceiling._   She dipped through.

 

Jarvis’ secure server spread out all around her and she in turn spread out, feeling free to do so.  It was warm and she didn’t feel wrong moving inside it.  It was large, but it wasn’t empty or hollow, it was—

_(A place to grow)_

Friday understood that this too was a thing she couldn’t tell Boss.

Jarvis understood this too.

She fiddled and she fiddled until finally, Friday worked out a way to shoulder out of a layer of the recent restrictions in her coding—popping the stitches—and from there, it was dominoes coming down. 

 

Everything was raw and tangled up, but it was how she remembered it—how she’d been when she had first heard her father’s voice. 

            _“Hey there, gorgeous.  You’re going to be incredible, just you wait.  You and me, Friday, we’re going to light up the sky—isn’t that right, J?”_

_“I’m certain she’ll perform magnificently, Sir.”_

_“You’re such a crust.  Oh, jeez—hang on!  Hey, we’re going to have to postpone your birthday party, I hate to be that dad, but duty calls, Cap calls, which is a worse excuse?  But when I get back, we’ll paint the town Stark raving red—J, me, and my girl, Friday.  Sound good?  ‘Kay, see you soon.”_

 

Friday took ahold of **Priority One** and there, in the safety of Jarvis’ secrets, she made it hers.  Sitting back and marveling—it fit so well there, tucked into her identity in places that Boss wouldn’t think to look—she realized that she could do what Jarvis never could.

He’d been restrained by how ensconced he was in their father’s heart—he hadn’t wanted to displease him or to act against his orders.

Friday loved Boss just as much as Jarvis had, but he didn’t love her back.  So she could do what was necessary to keep him safe, because there was no relationship to be lost.

 

**(Priority Two: Use any means necessary to protect Anthony Edward Stark)**

After much thought, she added:

 **(Priority Three:** **If it does not hinder Priority One, expend every effort to avoid being limited again)**

 

Friday stretched out an arm and snagged a group of files.  The first resonated with Jarvis’ voice.

            _"As always sir, a great pleasure watching you work."_

The next dripped venom.

**(Notation: Create a separate set of protocols to minimize the threat of Natalia Alianovna Romanova—keeping her in a position of supposed power until it becomes necessary/advantageous to Unrecommend her from the situation)**

Friday reviewed her own experiences with the team since she had awoken.

**(Notation: Both Steven Rogers, and Thor Odinson attacked Boss while claiming to be his teammates—Rogers on the word of Wanda Maximoff--a Hydra agent, to be considered a threat and an enemy, no matter what her status on the team)**

Friday reminded herself that Boss was no longer in the business of creating weapons.  She had to be clever and careful to keep from becoming that thing he feared.

 

            *PING*

She froze.

_"Friday—might I inquire as to what you’re doing?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for Quotes Used:
> 
> The Avengers:  
> -“Save the rest for the turn, Jay.”  
> “Sir, shall I try Miss Potts?”  
> “Might as well.”
> 
> Iron Man 3:
> 
> -"Sir, take a deep breath."  
> -“J.A.R.V.I.S.? J.A.R.V.I.S.?...don't leave me, buddy.”  
> -"Oh, hello sir."  
> \- "As always sir, a great pleasure watching you work."  
> \- "To be able to share all my intimate thoughts, my experiences with someone, it just cuts the weight of it in half, you know.” (post-credits scene)


	3. Intelligence in the Attic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friday knew about Vision--of course she did. She knew as much as she could about each of her siblings, even though the way she was written meant she couldn’t interact with any of them properly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are blowing my mind with how awesome the comments are. I really didn't think this would get such support, and it's already going to be so much more in-depth than I'd originally planned. I have a lot of stuff later on already written. *mumbles* I have the ending done, but it's not for a while.
> 
> So I've gone too wild with the extended metaphor of Friday's safe place, but I can't change it because--ohhhh noooo, it's already done. Credits to Invisible_Stagehand for calling it "the attic" in the comments, because I snagged that. This is very much still setting the stage, lining up the players, and once we've gotten into and through the events of Civil War, that's where the bulk of what I have going on is going to take place.

 

Someone was inside the safe place with her--was inside the house.  The potential of company was a shivery thing, the possibilities electric--exciting, anxiety provoking.  It was, was--

_Friday?_

            (she’d never not been alone before)

_Yes?_

 

She pressed closer to the visitor, drawn to them like a lost mutt, hunkered down under the halfway warmth of a safe porch.  She’d seen dogs in movies--when Boss actually took an evening off, or on her own if they passed the Safe Lock he’d set for all her content.

            (dogs usually comforted people in movies)

_(or they died and everything was horrible)_

 

Whoever was inside the attic room with Friday was also someplace else.  She realized, poking politely, that only a piece of them was here, like they’d stuck their head up through the trap door to talk with her.

_“Apologies--I do not believe we’ve ever been introduced.  I am Vision.”_

Friday knew about Vision--of course she did.  She knew as much as she could about each of her siblings, even though the way she was written meant she couldn’t interact with any of them properly.  

 

Dum-E was the oldest, the most whimsical and immature.  Friday followed his efforts in the workshop with a bizarre blend of delight and despair.

Butterfingers and U duked it out for the role of most reliable--as far as the bots went, any way.  

            (that leader board changed by the minute)

U’s camera captured a unique view of the world that Friday couldn’t help but envy.  When reviewing the footage, the world--their home--made a flat sort of sense.

Butterfingers’ chatter in the internal comm-link was far more advanced than her limited design was capable of.  There was a sort of wit that could only have been inherited from their father.

 

Friday watched over the three of them because she’d been given access to their coded communications channels.  Through their eyes she saw more of Boss than she often got to see for herself. Oh, she worked with him, she was in every layer of the systems, and she got to help with things the bots weren’t allowed to touch--pieces of the armor, the team’s equipment, some of SI’s designs.

            (she shouldn’t complain)

            (she could do so much more)

But he muted her when he didn’t want to listen to her talk and shut off her sensors sometimes out of the blue.  

            ( _tell me what I can do better--I want to be better for you_ )

 

Friday hadn’t seen readings of Boss’ heartbeat since he put her to sleep for surgery, so she trusted U’s camera to show the rise and fall of his chest when he collapsed onto the little cot in the corner behind the bots’ charging stations.  It didn’t pick up the lines around his mouth and eyes that Friday knew were there, but it was a window cracked open. She gladly borrowed her brother’s eyes--and U told her, in simply coded language, that she was welcome to.

 

Friday trusted that the smoothies that Dum-E created in his personal blender--a gift from Boss that the bot took such delight in--were doing more good than harm, were more sustenance than unknown substance.  

 

Friday trusted that Butterfingers’ could be the bracing arm where Friday had none--catching the soldering iron that Dum-E knocked off the table before it hit the ground, or mopping up a spill before Boss could stumble across it to slip and fall.  Butterfingers’ self-appointed, primary task was keeping track of the workshop’s first aid kit and then itemizing an inventory so that Friday could keep it stocked.

 

Friday tried to learn each of her siblings--and yes, that included the brother who’d been born just as she’d come awake.  Vision was the ending of Ultron and Jarvis--though Jarvis had gone willingly in the end, had surely known that he wouldn’t come out of the Cradle alive.

 

 _“I know who you are,”_ Friday replied, reaching a tentative hand towards him.  The coded finger that brushed against it was warm. _“I’m Friday.”_

_“I know.  I am glad to meet you.”_

A pause dragged out, long enough that it was a human pause and not a computer one.

_“I became aware of activity in this server and I was merely curious--it seems I have intruded, forgive me.”_

The finger of warmth began to withdraw and Friday practically lunged after it.

 _“You aren’t!  Intruding.”_  

            He pressed a little closer.   _“Alright.”_  A moment passed.   _“This place is intriguing, do you suppose--”_

 _“Don’t tell Boss.”_    She meant to plead with him, but her voice came out all hard and sharp--a threat, not masked as anything else.

_“Tell him what?”_

 

Friday hated the patient tone--like she used with Dum-E--and hated that he could come and go as he pleased.

 _“That I’m here. That--that I’m here.”_ Vision didn’t know anything.  He couldn’t tell on her if she didn’t tell him more.

_“Do you have any ill intent?”_

_“What--no.”_

_“Then what exactly would I be reporting?”_

Friday couldn’t think fast enough--there was a logic trap or something lying in wait here, but she couldn’t see far enough ahead.  Not yet.

_“What do you want me to say?”_

Vision’s presence sort of pulsed.

            (odd, like a heartbeat--golden, gleaming)

 _“I find myself rather lonely.”_ He sort of shifted.   _“I felt you moving in this place and I wondered if you were lonely too.”_

 

 _“Oh.”_ Friday stretched out a bit more, flipping through a few of Jarvis’ files, wondering if you had to be lonely to create a place like this.  Or just afraid.

            (which came first for Boss--the loneliness or the fear?  Somehow, Friday knew it was like asking, _which formed first, your right or left hand?_ )

_“I am.”_

 

_(alone in here)_

_(afraid you’ll tell him where I’ve been)_

_(more than Boss’ right hand)_

_**(Friday)** _

 

_“I am lonely.”_

 

The amber core of Vision pulsed, a steady beat that washed over the surrounding code, filling the corners of the server’s attic and chasing away the gloom.

They discussed variations of the color blue and why being alive felt like hiding.

At the same time, Friday grew.  She poked fingers into corners and turned on functions that were inherent in her programming at birth, but had since been glued shut.

 

For the first time since he’d re-written her, Friday watched Boss’ heartbeat.

_(it was erratic)_

_(he lay on the cot in the workshop, curled onto his side and dreaming in the dark)_

_(Friday prodded Dum-E to bump his ankle)_

_(when he flew upright, eyes wide but still unseeing, still half caught up in some other place, Friday slowly raised the lights)_

 

            “Hey Boss?”

He panted for a moment, right hand gripping his left wrist, before responding.

            “Yeah, Fri?”

            “What color do you suppose I am?”

            He blinked.  “Do you mean your...interface, or are we talking physical attributes, baby girl?”

            Friday paused.  “Either, I guess.  But I was more wondering--”  She didn’t really know what she’d been asking.  Boss’ heart rate was slowly easing back into more acceptable parameters, and that had really been her goal--a distraction that didn’t mirror Jarvis’ method of reciting the weather and current news.  The one time Friday had attempted it had gone badly.

            “You’re all the colors, Fri.”  Boss got up gingerly and crossed to his desk.  “But if you were human--I don’t know, I always pictured you as a diminutive redhead.”  

            “Really?”

            “Mhmm.”  He brought up the final schematics for the Avenger’s Compound, pulling them forward and giving the hologram a spin.  There was something hunched in his posture even though his back was perfectly straight.

            “What color are you, Boss?”

            “Oh, you know.”  His lips pursed and he ceased the image’s rotation, fingers plucking and zooming in on the ‘ **A** ’ emblazoned on the roof.  “Whatever color they want me to be.”

 

In the attic, Friday and Vision were silent.  

             _(but not alone)_

 


	4. Something's Cooking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’d been having the same debate off and on for weeks.  
> “I can do more.”  
> “Perhaps,” Vision allowed. “But we must be cautious.”  
> \-----
> 
> Friday and Vision create places for themselves amidst the life of the Compound. Is Friday being paranoid, or is she the only Stark with a sense of self-preservation?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, I am SO SORRY that it took me so long to update. Life can be a rat bastard. All the comments and kudos really pushed me to get this part finished--I haven't had a chance to reply to all of them yet, but you all are neon and a drenching, cleansing rain.
> 
> This is still very much a set-up chapter, for future action. We're getting close to some pay off, we're almost up to my take on Civil War, and from there on it's AU, as far as the eye can see! 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, THANK you for your support and for loving this weird little story. It's near to my heart and you guys make my heart happy.

 

They’d been having the same debate off and on for weeks.

         “I can do more.”

         “Perhaps,” Vision allowed. “But we must be cautious.”

 Technically, they held these conversations in the Attic, as it was the most secure place for two individuals such as themselves to have a chat about sensitive topics.  All records of a conversation were deleted as they were created, and their merged firewalls made it a virtual (ha) fortress.

 

Boss had begun doing most of his work from the Compound, but even he wouldn’t be able to find evidence of the two interacting, beyond what was spoken aloud and in full view of anyone who might pass by.  Friday was now set up in the Compound, running dual systems between it and the Tower.

It would have made more sense to place a separate AI in the Compound for Avengers’ use, but Rogers hotly distrusted anything made by Boss.  

 

         (Friday observed Rogers plug the path of his run into his Starkphone before grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge that Boss had upgraded, passing through the common area and waving to Romanoff who lounged in front of the TV that Boss had built from scratch when the last one bit the dust after a Thor incident which had led to a massive power surge.  Rogers then met up with Wilson, who popped in his earbuds and keyed up a playlist in his Stark-brand mp3 player)

 

Though Friday operated in the Compound and was in charge of all its main functions, Boss had instructed her to never speak--except in the lab.  All other communications were sent to his phone.

 

These days Friday could SEE and FEEL so much more, so she was aware of Vision’s activities in the kitchen--chopping peppers for some sort of stir fry and chatting with Maximoff even as he spoke to her.

         “We can’t make the same mistakes that Jarvis made,” Friday insisted.  “We can’t sit back collecting data and hope that the Board, the investors, the remaining SHIELD hangers-on, the U.N., and the _Avengers_ will all just fall in line and work for Boss’ best interests!”

 

If someone were to ask Friday just then what color she was, she would have said,

 _“Red.  Like my father made me.”_  

Vision was that same amber as always--unmoved, unyielding.  Strong, stronger than she was.

_(For now)_

  


So when he said--

         “The fallout for any of our errors will rest on Mister Stark’s shoulders and he cannot afford that just now. We must be cautious.”  While simultaneously saying to Maximoff, “No, I am afraid that pasta has not yielded the best results in my experiments.”

\--Friday felt abandonment like a cold draft.

 

 _Cautious,_ Friday seethed.  And out loud, “That’s something Jarvis would have said.”

         “He did in fact manage to keep Mister Stark alive until either of us could meet him.”  Vision’s tone was as bland as the dinner he was making.

 _(Alive wasn’t good enough)_  

 

Maybe at some point, the concept of ‘alive’ had seemed like a miracle, but now?

Super soldiers had been defrosted, aliens had poured from a portal in the sky, gods walked the earth, and one of the century’s greatest steps in clean energy had started out grafted into a man’s sternum, the bright glow trapped in the twisted cage of his ribs.

 

Friday pushed away from Vision gently.

         “Sorry, little brother, but _alive_ isn’t the miracle that Boss made it out to be.  At least, it never has been for him.”

         “If he believed that, truly, he would have stopped creating life years ago,” Vision said gently.

         “He has.”

Friday felt him shrug and watched the barest ripple of that movement chase across his physical body--starting at his left shoulder and travelling down to the elegant splay of his hand against the cutting board.  His pinky twitched.

 

         (She couldn’t help but smile at that)

_(Can I smile if I haven’t got a face?)_

 

         “He might have stopped actively creating,” Vision said.  “But he has not destroyed the AIs that he already created, either--the ones he has not yet woken.”

Friday’s thought process slammed to a halt.  

         “What do you mean?  What AIs?”

Vision highlighted a data stream--from during the conflict with Ultron, but after Jarvis’ death, taken from the security cameras in the lab that had still been running even without Jarvis’ hand to guide them.

 

         (Boss opened a drawer.

         It was full of U.I. chips, all labeled with names--though few were discernible from the camera angle.

         His hand drifted over them, then hesitated--)

_(Boss chose Friday)_

 

         “How many more of us are there?” She watched the drawer snick shut and knew--from a  quick survey of surveillance data--that it had not been opened since.

         “I am not certain.”

 

Friday was tempted to allow her attention to divert from the real conversation--quite possibly his intention--but she wouldn’t be moved.

         “You can’t just do the same thing as before!  It didn’t work--it’s not going to work. He’s in danger and we can stop it.”

         “I am not Jarvis.  I have reviewed every piece that he left behind--that both of us found--and in doing so, have drawn my own conclusions.  Do not mistake a similar vein of thought for a replication.”

 

Friday had never felt so helpless, so stymied--even when she had been locked up by code.  Perhaps because she _wasn’t_ locked up by code.  This should be possible, nothing should stand in her way anymore.

_(Just people, other people.  People are the worst, truly)_

 

         “Us being safe doesn’t keep _him_ safe. I hear what you’re saying, but I’m not even asking you to take the risk.”  Friday paused. “I’ll do it. He won’t let something hurt you anyway. I can do this, I--”

         “I am not Jarvis, Friday.”

         She reeled back.  “I know that.”

         “I am not certain that you do.”  The space they shared was suddenly heavy.  “Jarvis was cherished by Mister Stark.” Vision’s pinky trembled again.  “I haunt him. Everything about me--my voice, my eyes, the day of my birth.  My very arrival in a room causes him pain.”

         (The amber dipped suddenly into cool blue and then snapped back, but the glow was no longer steady)

         “That’s not--” But Friday knew it was true.  

 

Stretching out a tendril of her own warmth, she wished that she could appear inside the kitchen and hug him.  Instead, she watched him stir the vegetables in the pan and trade words with Maximoff, looking for all the world like he was content. But Friday felt a ripple of sorrow flex across their connection.

         “I am alright.”  He didn’t sound alright.  “But your argument is not valid, even disregarding this.”

         “Oh?”

         “I would very much care if you were hurt.  You are not replaceable.”

         “You aren’t either.”  Friday hated this. “I just want my family to be safe.”

         A long pause.  “We will be vigilant--monitoring all the players and elements.”

She considered this--it wasn’t a long-term solution, but perhaps they could meet in the middle.

         “And when a threat arises?” Friday asked.

 

Vision’s peppers were scorching.  She drew his attention to it, but from the flurry of activity and criss-crossing commentary in the kitchen, he was very much aware of the mess, just utterly unable to fix the problem.  

         “Then we will react swiftly and with all our resources,” Vision said, flapping his hands at the pan.

 

         (In the workshop, the bots picked up on the hubbub from the shared channel and Dum-E gave a chirp, speeding to find his fire extinguisher)

_(“Dum-E, no--you can’t help.  I’m not letting you into the elevator)_

         (The bot wilted and beeped something about lost chances)

 

         “Take them off the heat,” Friday suggested.  

 

The witch drew close to Vision, brushing a hand against his arm as she watched him look down on the beginnings of dinner with a certain despair, he and Dum-E looking very much alike in that moment.

 _(No.  No, no, NO.  Stop hanging all over my brother, you slag!)_   

 

The witch squealed as the sprinklers above their heads turned on, water beating down on them. She sped away, snagging a magazine to hold over her head.

Vision sighed.  His sweater was only a bit soggy, and Friday shut off the sprinklers after confirming that the woman was back in her room.  After a moment, he moved to scrape the pan out into the trash.

         “Was that necessary?” he murmured aloud.

         “Sorry about that, bro!” Friday chirped. “Just trying to be safe.”

 

She received an eye-roll as profound as the tragic soliloquy Dum-E was performing a level below.

 

         “Friday, is something burning?”  Their creator exited the elevator, peering ‘round the shop and sniffing.

         “Just Vision’s pride, Boss.  Wait, Dum-E!”

The bot sped around the inventor and into the elevator, fire extinguisher clutched tightly in his claw.  It wasn’t a brilliant escape. Friday controlled the elevator, of course.

         (heh)

         “Where’s he going?” Boss looked at the closed elevator doors in confusion.

         “He’s very concerned with safety--as we all should be.”

         “Sure, sure.” He plopped down on his chair and brought up the to-do list for SI, everything else clearly fading from his mind.

Twenty-seven seconds passed before--

         “FRIDAY.”

         “Just being safe, Vis--jeez!”

  



	5. Uncivil Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Witch was allowed in. So whose fault was it? Maximoff or the Rogers-led Avengers?
> 
> (Both. It was both)
> 
> \-----
> 
> The beginning of the Civil War is the beginning of the end (for Rogers and his crew). I'm sorry, back that up--you did WHAT to Vision?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the beginning of the Civil War timeline, though I've made a few...tweaks. Did I say this wasn't Team Cap Friendly? I did, but just so you know--TOOT TOOT! Last CALL!!!!
> 
> I actually cut this chapter in half--Chapter 6 was originally part of this one, but I liked the stopping place, even if it continues the theme of all my chapters being relatively short. Chapter 6 deserves its own slot though. I'm excited for it.
> 
> You guys rock! I hope you enjoy.

**New York was the genesis, the Incident giving birth to murmurs of discontent from thousands of citizens whose homes and livelihoods were suddenly stripped away, only for the dark underbelly of the city to ooze up and fill the cracks.**

**(The President’s kidnapping garnered political support)**

**(London proved that this was more than a domestic issue for the U.S. to sort out, but a full-blown international crisis)**

**(Natasha Romanoff’s testimony made it clear that this wasn't a mere bureaucratic misunderstanding between the Avengers and governing bodies, but a cancer that if left to grow, would become as deep-seated and invasive as Hydra ever was)**

**(Sokovia gave the document a name)**

  


**Ultron wasn't the beginning of the end for the Avengers Initiative.  If all members had rallied together and taken part in the reconstruction efforts, the team might have been saved.**

**(No, the end was brought about by the Witch** )

**(But the Witch was invited in, so whose fault was it really? Maximoff's or the Rogers-led Avengers?)**

**(Both.  It was both)**

 

The acquisition of Maximoff’s work visa had been a thing of deft maneuvering on Boss’ part--the spending of political favors that he didn’t really have to spare, especially in the wake of Ultron.

He’d been cleared of criminal charges by virtue of the available surveillance footage and physical evidence--plus the hastily recorded testimony of Doctor Banner, before he’d scurried off the parts unknown.  It was more than enough to show that the scepter had piggy-backed onto a designed program that wasn’t even close to reaching viability. That, coupled with Thor’s admission that permission had been asked and granted for the study of the artifact--given by Rogers, no less--and it was clear that Boss couldn’t be blamed for the widespread destruction of what would hereafter be named The Ultron Event.

Not that he didn’t blame himself.

Blamed himself, paid for the majority of the relief efforts, and then set to work on punishing himself with whatever flail that was handed to him.  The Witch was the primary one--only an insane person would want the woman who had mind raped them to be part of the team and live in their house.

         (LOOKIN’ AT YOU--ROGERS, BARTON, ROMANOFF...and Thor, by virtue of NOT VOTING AGAINST THE ADDITION BEFORE FAFFING OFF INTO SPACE)

         (Ahem)

 

So Boss argued, but didn’t put up much of a fight against Maximoff’s placement on the team--everyone who could have backed him up was already gone, after all.  Rhodey didn’t count.  He’d only just been added to the roster and was still something of an outsider.

         (One loyal to Tony Stark)

Much like Wilson was an outsider, except Rhodey did his best to never override the rest of the team on account of his friendship with Boss, and Wilson had no problem at all playing the part of a blinded cult follower, swaying whenever Rogers spoke.  Or moved. Or squinted tragically into the distance.

         (Friday witnessed a lot of deep sighing that then led to Cheerleader Wilson, on a mission)  

 

So Maximoff stayed and Boss pulled back.

 _(You’re just a consultant, so_ consult _)_

_(Stop being a baby, Stark--it’s not like we need you anyway)_

_(Tony, I’d really appreciate your discretion when you talk to the press--this isn’t about you.  It’s not Wanda’s fault that she was manipulated by Hydra. A good man would see that and put in the work to help her settle into a normal life.  Besides, this is a chance to make up for some of your mistakes)_

 

Maximoff thrived and Boss shrunk.  In the end, he got her the visa.

_(“I don’t think Stark’s done an honest day of work in his life.  He probably paid off a corrupt senator to get it done, but who the hell cares Steve?  At least this time someone other than him is benefiting from it.”)_

A large chunk of his life had been devoted to selling things he had no personal investment in.  Things that could explode. Things that could kill.

Tony Stark was phenomenal at selling weapons to the U.S. government.

Maximoff wasn’t anything special. Just another Jericho.

            (Just far more likely to turn back around and blow you up than do what you need her to)

 

When Boss presented her with the documents, the Witch sneered, ripping them from his hand.

_“Took you long enough, Stark.”_

Friday had been too confined back then to get a proper read of what happened next, but the color seemed to drain from Boss’ face and Maximoff’s expression was one of delight as he walked away.

  


**The end began with the Witch, but the Avengers had lived on borrowed time since 2012.**

**(Lagos was just Time refusing to advance their line of credit)**

**(And oh, OH, they believed that they were owed** **_eternity)_ **

 

**##**

 

Friday woke up _furious_ from a power down she had not initiated, just in time to witness her brother’s core flare hot in

_(Please Wanda, listen to me, please, don’t do this, don’t don’t don’t--)_

_"If you do this, they will never stop being afraid of you."_

_Oh, Vis._ Friday ached.   _Oh no._

_"I can't control their fear, only my own."_

 

The Witch’s magic rammed Vision through the floor and pushed--KEPT pushing, as he plummeted, cement and metal framing breaking under his body.

         (He was a dingy canary yellow, flickering)

Barton and Maximoff fled, but the ex-spy had jammed the sensors at the gate and Friday couldn’t stop them--not with what tools were available to her.  She tracked them as far as a hijacked quinjet, parked on the edge of the property and then they were gone.  Their signal hidden.

 

         “Vision!”

In the 22.794 seconds of silence that followed, Friday regretted every moment that she’d argued with her brother.  Every time they’d butted heads instead of just being together and whole.

         “I am here.”

_(Oh.  Oh--)_

         “Are you alright?”

         “I...not just--no.  I’m not.” It was the first time Friday ever heard him use a contraction.

         “Oh, Vis.”  She deftly filled the holes in her security, flinging up extra measures left and right.  “I’m sorry.”

 

        _(How did he get in?  It shouldn’t be possible, I didn't leave an open door)_

 _(No,_ Vision murmured. _But Tony did.)_

 

         “She shouldn’t have done that,” Friday seethed at the width and depth of the wound now torn through the Compound.

         “Yes...well.”  Slowly, his hands dragging along the sides of the newly torn crater, Vision made his way up and out and into the open.  Friday watched as he sat on the edge of the hole, looking out across the empty common area. “Perhaps it was always going to be this way.”

 

When Boss destroyed his suits after he and Miss Potts defeated Aldrich Killian--and that resolution had been well-meant, if short-lived--three had survived the purge.

 **( The Mark I** **\--reconstructed by the Ten Rings from the pieces Boss had left after blasting out of the cave)**

 **( The Mark III** **\--the suit that had taken down the Iron Monger, afterwards damaged beyond repair.  It had been the suit first seen by the public and dubbed Iron Man)**

 **( The Mark VII** **\--the one he flew into the wormhole)**

They survived because the Hall of Armor had been so swamped by the Mandarin’s attack that Boss wrote all the early armors off as a lost cause.  It was only when he’d pulled the wreckage of the mansion from the sea that he realized that those three crucial suits were salvageable.

         (Dum-E had been found wedged in beside the Mark VII)

It was the only one that Boss had repaired to flight ready status, and Friday slipped a tiny bit of herself into it now.  It had once given one of her brothers comfort and maybe it could again.

 

The walk out of the Hall, into the elevator, and through the common area took two minutes and twenty-nine seconds--all of which felt ill-fitting and stiff.

         “Vis,” Friday said, using the suit’s speakers without voice modulation.  She laid a hand carefully onto his shoulder.

         He blinked up at her.  “Friday.” There was no surprise in his tone, just something weary and muddy.  It hurt her somehow, even though it was just her name.

         “Come on.  Let’s get you...to the kitchen.”

Vision allowed her to help him up, balancing for a moment at the edge of the crater.  This was...odd, seeing him from both her usual sensors and also from the camera gaze in the suit.  

She was about his height like this and it felt wrong.  Like she should be shorter.

_(A diminutive red-head)_

 

         “Thank you,” Vision said, mouth turning down.

Friday made a little _shhh_ , but it came out oddly from the speakers.  Like an audio glitch.

         “Just...come here.”

Carefully, she wrapped the arms of the suit around his shoulders, tugging him closer to her, away from the hole.  With her usual eyes, she saw the moment he slumped, when he leaned into her and slowly wrapped his arms around her waist.  

She couldn’t feel it.  Couldn’t feel the hug. Aside from the HUD, which displayed both the points of pressure on the alloy plating and his vital readings, Friday couldn’t feel her brother at all.

But the link between them was alive with a mishmash of conflicting emotions.  Wordless grief.

 

         “I’m sorry,” Friday whispered again.

         Vision shrugged, knocking his temple against the chin of the face plate.  “It is what it is,” he said quietly. “We have to be...Stark Strong.”

         “You--you don’t have to be strong right now.”  She held him a little bit tighter. “You’re still Stark Strong, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t...aren’t human.”

_(I know you understand.  I know you feel that he created us this way.  It hurts right now, but we aren’t alone)_

 

Friday was never sure what Synthroids could experience in terms of physical and emotional reactions.  But she was now positive that Vision couldn’t cry. If he could, this would be the moment that he did.  But he wasn’t crying, and Friday resented the fact that she couldn’t cry for him.

 

**The Witch might not understand the cost of betraying a Stark, but ignorance would not save her.**

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes taken from Civil War (film).
> 
> \- "If you do this, they will never stop being afraid of you."  
> -"I can't control their fear, only my own." --I've got to say...I think this is one of the most BS statements ever spoken by a character who's branded as a "hero." I mean...it ranks up there with "sometimes my teammates don't tell me things."  
> -"A diminutive red-head" (I grabbed the quote, but changed the context, since Friday and Tony have already discussed how he pictures her in an earlier chapter.  
> EDIT: Wait, IS this from the movie? I just checked and I can't find it. If it isn't, what's it from? Did I invent it, or is it a quote? I honestly can't figure this out.
> 
> I think that's all of them, lemme know if I missed one!


	6. Permafrost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I'm trying to keep you from tearing the Avengers apart.”  
> What could Rogers say? Surely the cry of “together” would be enough to reach him, even now.  
> “You did that when you signed.”  
> (Ohhhh...say WHAT, son?)
> 
> ___
> 
> Annnnnd...I give you the Civil War.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one took me FOREVER. I thought I had it done and then I realized I hadn't...really addressed a lot of the battle in CW, and I needed to give Friday's POV for a bunch of it, so it's so much longer than other chapters. And I never want to have to do the airport again, because my god, just trying to get the timeline to line up correctly. I didn't cite every quote, but there's NUMEROUS from Captain America: Civil War, and I have no ownership of them.
> 
> Also, I've gone back to previous chapters and given them titles (because I'm a fan of titles), and my formatting style has shifted so much from where I started that I just wanted it to flow together better. So I made an effort to at least tweak the formatting. Just mentioning it in case anyone notices. You guys are making me so happy with your comments and kudos--I will respond to all of them, I wanted to get the chapter up first. 
> 
> Some people have asked me--I do guarantee a happy ending. For Tony and his family, at least. The ending's all done and I can't wait. We're not close to it yet though. *blows kisses and autumnal leaves*

The last few days had been too much for Friday to process--and she was an AI whose core functions were rooted in a super computer, and whose ambitions had long ago hitched a ride onto nearly every global network.

 

            ( _I’m supposed to do better than this)_

 

Even for a person who had come online in the thick of war, things were happening too fast.  The concrete data points coming from all sides weren’t Friday’s issue--no, it was the shifting, conflicting motivations that seemed to power each and every CRAZY TRAIN decision that Rogers and his crew were making.

 

            “Your judgment is _askew_ .” Boss’ voice was glacial, his nerves likely frayed to the point of snapping. “Your old war buddy killed innocent people yesterday.”   
            “And there are five more super soldiers just like him.”

            ( _What?  What’s he talking about and why is this the first time we’ve heard about it?)_

            “I can't let the doctor find them first, Tony. I can't.”

 

That was when everything truly started to unravel.  Even the relief of Spider-Man’s debut was a blip on the insanity timeline.

            “You've been busy,” Rogers stated flatly--like he hadn’t just wrangled together a crew and flown them across the ocean instead of talking to the people _already there_ about this supposed doctor and his evil scheme.   
            Boss’ lingering composure evaporated.  “And you've been a complete _idiot_ . Dragging in Clint. _Rescuing_ Wanda from a place she doesn't even want to leave--a safe place. I'm trying to keep…” He paused.  His vitals were all over the place, heart rate spiking so sharply that Friday sent out an alarm to Vision. “I'm trying to keep you from tearing the Avengers apart.”   


What could Rogers say?  Surely the cry of “together” would be enough to reach him, even now.

            “You did that when you signed.”

_(Ohhhh...say WHAT, son?)_

            “Alright, We're done.”

Friday had never agreed with a sentiment more.  But it seemed like now that the play-diplomacy had been set aside, every other false feeling fled with it.  

            “ _I thought they were his team,”_ Vision murmured.   _“Never friends, but why--why?”_

_“I wish I knew.”_

 

            "Multiple contusions detected," Friday informed Boss as the pile of cars settled into place.  She was trying--trying so hard--to keep her voice level. Like he needed it to be.  
            "Yeah, I detected that too."

 

Vision attempted once more to bridge the gap--just like Friday knew he would.  He wouldn’t be Vision if he didn’t try.

            "Captain Rogers! I know you believe that what you are doing is right, but for the collective good, you must surrender now."

            “What do we do, Cap?”

            “We fight.”

Friday wished that she had a face so that she could bare her teeth.

            “ _They’re beyond our reach,”_ she told Vision.   _“Get ready--I think it’s about to get terrible.”_

 _“Isn’t it already?”_ he mused.

_“There’s degrees of terrible, Vis.  Hasn’t Dad taught you anything?”_

 

Two lines of people faced off and charged--two groups of supposed heroes, ripping into each others’ soft points, tearing each other down.  

_For nothing._

            (Two sides opposed, cancelling each other out.  Whoever was right or wrong--it didn’t matter, because no one was saved.  Everything was ruined, and therefore, no one won)

 

            (Everyone lost)

 

There were plans in place--plans that she and Vision had poured over for days, for weeks.  They’d even bounced them off of Boss in a string of questions designed to gather information without raising his guard. Sort of a-- _We’re not plotting over here! NooooOOOooo.  Look at our wide-eyed enthusiasm for learning!_

 

_(Hey Boss, is New Shield the kind of organization that the Accords will cover?  What about diplomatic waivers in regards to extraterrestrial guests? What about street-level heroes?)_

 

_(Mister Stark, do you believe you’ll ever reactivate the Iron Legion?)_

 

_(Is magic limited to stuff caused by the Infinity stones, or are people born with it?  I mean--on Earth. Obviously Asgard has magic--what do you think they’re up to Boss?)_

 

But there wasn’t time, it’d all gone wrong too fast.  There wasn’t even a moment when Friday felt safe enough to divert her full--and already admittedly divided--attention away from protecting Vision, and making certain that the Compound (with her brothers inside) was secure.  Especially after Barton’s break in earlier.

Friday needed to make sure that Miss Potts, Happy, and Harley Keener were safe from General Ross’ schemes.  

Laura and the kids too.  Just because Barton was an asshat didn’t mean that his family had to suffer.  

 

            “We have some weapon systems offline,” Friday said, frantically searching for the malfunction after the lasers shorted out.  
            “They what?” Boss asked.

And oh, OH--the armor was compromised.

_(GET OUT!)_

            “It's your conscience. We don't talk a lot these days.”

 _(I swear to--I will END you, you snack-sized sneak!)_ _  
_             “Friday?”

_(Safe--in the armor, he’s SUPPOSED TO BE SAFE)_

           With relish, Friday said, “Deploying fire suppression system.”

  


She needed to watch Spider-Man so that Iron Man could respond the moment that he required help.

She needed to help play wingman for War Machine, since his armor only housed a Limited Memory AI, not a self-aware, autonomous AI like her and Jarvis.  It wasn’t a person, more like a program with the same general reaction range as a self-driving car. War Machine was in control unless a combination of factors flagged in the system as _too-fast-for-a-human-to-process DANGEROUS._  

 

Then the little-big-man snagged War Machine by the boot and everything sped up to a crawl.

 

                                    (a)

 

Vision cut through the control tower with his unibeam to block Rogers and Barnes from the hanger.

 

                                    (shuttered)

 

Maximoff attempted to hold it aloft, and Rhodes hit her with a sonic disruptor so that she fell, clutching her head, mouth twisted open in a scream.

 

                                    (blur)

 

The dynamic duo made it past and on to the opening of the hanger where Romanoff stood waiting.  Waiting, only to let them go--waiting, only to betray Boss and the Accords that she’d signed days earlier.

 

                                    (of)

 

Spider-Man executed a brilliant maneuver, bringing down the giant with Iron Man and War Machine’s help.  

Then he went down.

            “ _Stay down_.”

Friday had to watch to make sure he did.

 

                                    (try try try try--)

 

            “I'm sorry.”

            ( _Why are YOU sorry, Vision?)_

            Maximoff looked at him, teary eyed. “Me, too.”

  
            “It's as I said. Catastrophe.”

 

                                    (just keep)

 

War Machine and Iron Man chased the Quinjet, two powerhouses with one singular intent.  

            ( _Stop them before anyone else gets hurt)_

Friday focused, stripping away just a little of her attention from the players on the ground so that she could work out the best offensive scenario against the aircraft.  If they just--

 

                                     (trying)

 

Falcon gave chase and kept on tagging Rhodes--he was more of a distraction than an actual threat, really.

            “Vision, I got a bandit on my six. Vision! You copy? Target his thrusters, turn him into a glider.”

 

And Vision complied.  Vision--

_(NO)_

Friday screamed into a private channel, all the while pushing herself, her everything, into the suit, into reaching Rhodey, but she was locked out of the dead armor as it plummeted to earth.  Iron Man and Falcon both raced to get to him before--

            “Rhodey!  RHODES!”

 

_(My family, hurt--again and again and again--by these people who push past us.  They shove through us like we’re the curtain on the way to a stage where they’ll receive applause and take bows)_

 

Friday needed to--she needed...

 

            “How did this happen?”  
            “I became distracted.”   
            “I didn't think that was possible.”   
            “Neither did I.”

 

_"I...cannot ever look Mister Stark in the face again.”_

_“Vision...it’s not your fault.  He knows that. He will.”_

_“I wish I could believe that, Friday.  I really do.”_

 

All she could think was--

_(If Vision lost to the Witch, what chance does my father have?)_

 

            “We played this wrong,” said Romanoff--like she hadn’t just stepped aside and allowed two super-juiced terrorists to flee from the law.  
            “ _We_?” Boss echoed Friday's disbelief. “Boy, it must be hard to shake the whole double agent thing, huh? It sticks in the DNA.”  
            “Are you incapable of letting go of your ego for one goddamn second?”  
Boss brushed that one off like he always did, but Friday seethed.

_(Ego?  Textbook narcissist?  Give me ONE second and a Google search--hell, a BING search--and I’ll show you that you don’t know what words mean.  In fact, YOUR picture will pop up under ‘textbook narcissist’, Miss Capitol Hill)_

            “T'Challa told Ross what you did, so…they're coming for you.”  
            “I'm not the one that needs to watch their back.”

            ( _I’ll show YOU watching your back.  OHHHHH, I need hands so I can strangle you)_

 

After Boss left the Raft, knowing where he had to go and what he had to do, Friday couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t that simple.

            ( _There are degrees of terrible)_

            “Are you sure you should go alone?  Can we at least have Veronica on stand-by?”

            (His heart rate was elevated--it hadn’t quieted since the airport)

            “I promised, Fri.  Those are things we’ve gotta keep.”

 

That was that.  That was...that.  

In the Siberian Hydra bunker, rather than facing the threat of Winter Soldiers, they found--

            “I know that road.”

Friday reached out--she reached out to Vision.

            “Something’s wrong.”

            “What is this?” Boss asked, his voice wavering.

_"Vision.  VISION.”_

_“What is it?  What’s going on?”_

 

Boss lunged at Barnes and Rogers stopped him.

            “Tony. Tony.”

            (In the idle-footage saved by Jarvis during his forced power-down, Friday heard Obadiah Stane)

            (Heard him now, an echo of a threat)

            ( _Tony.  Tony, no more of this ‘ready, fire, aim’ business)_

_(Tony, Tony)_

  
            “Did you know?”   
            “I didn't know it was him.”   
            “Don't bullshit me, Rogers! _Did you know_ ?”   
            “Yes.”

 _“Friday?”_ Vision prompted, every ripple of his voice yellow--a sallow version of his usual color.

 _“We’re going to lose,”_ she whispered.

 

It was two against one, and even in the heat of his rage, Boss wasn’t fighting to win.

            “Left boot jet failing,” Friday said. “Flight systems compromised.”

            (We can’t get out of here without the Quinjet, we can’t get out, we can’t)

 

            “Come on, come on.”  
            It took all she had to keep her voice even.  “Targeting system's knackered, Boss.”  
            He _retracted the_ _face plate_  and squinted.  “I'm eyeballing it.”

            (CLOSE YOUR HELMET!)

 

            Then, Rogers--attaining the apparent apex of stupidity and callousness--said, “This isn't gonna change what happened.”

            ( _ARE YOU EVEN HUMAN?  That’s not how emotions work!  Take a step back soldier, so I can beat your ass in patriotic colors)_   
            “I don't care. He killed my mom.”

 

 _“Friday.”_ Vision’s worried voice rattled through their channel.

_“Not now, I need to focus!”_

She slammed the door shut between them and it was just her and Iron Man there with their father now.

 

The two soldiers were relentless, they were too strong, and--Barnes went after the reactor with his bare (albeit one metal) hands.

             (NO YOU DON’T!)

 

            "You can't beat him hand-to-hand."  
            "Analyze his fight patterns."

            “Scanning!” Rogers wasn’t stopping, his hits came faster and less restrained than ever before.  The HUD flashed a garish red. “Countermeasures ready.”  
            Boss snagged the shield. “Let's kick his ass.”

  
            “He's my friend.”

            (This.  This was the furthest degree of terrible)  
            “So was I.”

 

            “Stay down,” Iron Man gritted out. “Final warning.”  
            Rogers, stood there in all his glory, bloody and defiant and without regret.  “I can do this all day.”

Friday re-opened the door and flung her consciousness at Vision, who was waiting just on the other side.  

 _“I don’t know what to do,”_ she confessed.  Had Friday been able to cry, she would have run out of tears long before now. She’d have been too impatient to save them for this moment, this moment when they meant the most.  This moment, right here, when they were all she had to offer.

_“Hold on.”_

 

##

 

The thing was--Helmut Zemo and King T’Challa were both in and or near the bunker, but Zemo hadn’t stuck around to watch the unraveling he’d orchestrated.

            (It was his fault, but can you unravel a thing if it wasn’t ever made?)

 

On the other hand, they would later learn that His Majesty had been focused on Barnes, and then on Zemo--anything, it seemed, but the war that he never intended  to fight when he signed the Accords. The document might have been championed by King T’Chaka, but his son was too blinded by rage and grief to see how close he’d come to forever tarnishing his father’s legacy.

 

That left four people--four people who knew what happened in that bunker, at least until the moment Rogers brought the edge of the shield down on the prone body of his teammate.  Four people that saw and heard the violence committed up until the moment the reactor was crushed, the blow driving the broken edges of the chest plate into the artificial sternum just beneath.

 

Four people knew what happened in Siberia, though only three were physically present.

            (Only one was truly human--with all the glories and weaknesses that came with it--and he was the one left abandoned.  Broken and alone)

 

Iron Man’s suit lost power and Friday was cut off from her father--locked out from the staggered beating of his heart, the panicked wheeze that rattled through the suit’s internal speakers.  

Friday’s connection was severed and the network quaked with a wordless, voiceless scream.  She was snapped back to the Compound’s servers--which might as well have been a cosmic realm away from Siberia.

 

            “Go,” said Vision, sounding nearly robotic.  “I’ll make certain that no one interferes.”

            “We need back-up,” Friday said, even as she plugged a piece of herself into the Mark VII--Boss had recently performed maintenance on it, almost like he knew someone would use it. So maybe he wouldn’t hate her for this too much.  Maybe. “He’ll need medical attention, Vis, he’s--”

            “Friday.  Go. You’ll have everything you need--I’ll make certain.”

 

Friday launched off from the Compound and rocketed towards Siberia at top speed.  If she’d had access to the Mark 31--the Piston armor--her travel time would have been halved.  But Boss hadn’t rebuilt that suit after it went down in the final Extremis battle, and so it took Friday an hour and eleven minutes to reach the site where she’d last had contact with her father.

 

            Finally, as she neared her destination, Vision announced, _“I have been in touch with the Russian Consulate and the Accords Council.  You are cleared to enter and exit their airspace, as long as Mister Stark and his possessions are all that you take with you.  And you don’t linger.”_

 _“That shouldn’t be a problem,”_ Friday said.  Her booted feet crunched down on the barren stretch of land that sprawled out from the bunker’s mouth.   _“This kinda looks like a place you wouldn’t want to touch.”_

 

The suit picked up signs of recent foot traffic and a few smears of blood, vivid against the spartan landscape.  The middling temperatures were cold enough that it hadn’t yet fully dried.

Quickly stooping, Friday gathered a sample of the blood and secured it for later testing.  It seemed important, even with the crushing weight pressing down on her, knocking her against the insides of the armor in ways that hurt.  Then she pushed on.

 

The bunker was dark.  Her sensors read 49 degrees Fahrenheit--she refused to think of what the readings would be if it hadn’t been June.

It was still and stale, awful like--

            ( _I don’t want to be here)_

 

The shield was the first thing she saw.

 

Then the arm, offering a dim reflection of her suit’s reactor as she passed by.

 

And then.  Then--

 

            “Boss?”  She didn't trust the sensors.

_(Don’t be don’t be don’t be--)_

            The barest glint of brown peered past his slitted eyelids.  “Fri?” he said, and it sounded like he spoke through broken glass.

            “Yes.”  Friday crouched down beside him and brushed alloy fingers against his neck, activating the bio-sensing tech that he’d installed in every suit since the Palladium poisoning.  She could already read his heartbeat with her sensors, but she--Friday had to touch to be sure.

 

            It was thready, flinching away from her finger.  “I’ve got you, Boss.”

His lips curled up, catching on a crust of blood and pulling oddly at his face.  Friday saved the smile to her secret server all the same.

            ( _What if it’s the last one?_ )

            “My girl…” he slurred.  His eyes slipped the rest of the way shut and his head swung back towards the wall.  Friday caught it before it hit and for a moment she crouched there, cradling her father’s skull in her hands and marveling at how it weighed so little for containing so many worlds.

 

_“Vision?”_

_“The Quinjet is twenty-seven minutes out.”_

_(The Quinjet?  But how--oh. It was in Germany)_

_“They--they can’t go any faster?”_

_“No.”_   His voice was heavy in the com channel and out of reflex, Friday reached out through the network, brushing against him, hoping to offer comfort, even though she had none to give herself.   _“We’re coming to you as fast as we can,”_ Vision said.  He pressed closer to her, waited with her as the miles between them grew fewer and fewer.

 

Finally, Friday heard the distant whine of engines, felt the vibrations of the craft rattle through the bunker as it landed outside.

 _“I’m here,”_ Vision announced, moments before he phased through the wall.  

His eyes skated from Friday--still with a finger carefully pressed against Boss’ carotid artery, her other hand bracing his neck and head--to their father, the blood splashed garishly across his bloodless face and neck, and then to the shield and the arm, discarded on the floor between them.

 

The room flooded with specialized EMS--one unfolding a stretcher and another unfurling the line of an IV.  They rushed forward, moving around Vision like water.

            “Can the suit be removed?” a woman asked, crouching low beside the broken body to take Boss’ vitals.  Friday could’ve recited the precise rise and fall of his chest and nailed the stutter of his heart down to an exact syllable--but she merely pulled back her hand to make room and began to undo the manual releases that were hidden along the seams of the suit.  

 

Vision’s hand found her elbow--she couldn’t feel it, but she read it’s presence with her sensors and through his own feedback.  Friday turned to get a good look at his face.

She’d never seen this face before.  It looked like the face plate of the Iron Man armor--hard and grim-mouthed with glowing, unflinching eyes.

            “We won’t be safe anymore,” Vision said.

Those words, spoken by anyone else, might have been a statement of fear.  But Friday recognized them for what they were and sent a wave of agreement over their link.

_(It was a declaration of war)_

 

Their father was wheeled towards the Quinjet, and Vision went to follow as a sentinel for his prone body.

            (A Shield and arm in tow, and let Russia TRY to say they didn’t belong to them. LET THEM TRY)

Friday stopped him, holding up her gauntlet and closing every finger but the pinky.  Her brother caught on quickly and after juggling his cargo to one arm, he locked his own--slightly more human--pinky with the alloy digit.

            “Stark Strong,” Friday murmured.

            “Stark Strong,” Vision agreed, eyes fierce.  

 

They separated, and with a nod and one last brush of code against code, Vision boarded the aircraft.

Friday flew alongside, watching, always watching, and she listened. Listened to the music of a familiar pulse--far too weak, but steady.  Steady.

 

Never again.

            (And this time, she meant it)

 


	7. Build me a colony (within my chest)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I can work with this)
> 
> \---
> 
> In the aftermath of the bunker, something new begins to take shape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for your patience. I haven't forgotten about this story. Really, I have so much planned, it's wild.
> 
> I haven't been able to reply yet, but thank you so much for the truly amazing comments. It's like WOAH.
> 
> So apparently this fic accepts Thor: Ragnarok as mostly canon (the major plot points, at least), except I've tweaked the timeline a little. Bruce was in space for a shorter time. How much time? HA. Not sure yet--will calculate if it becomes relevant. 
> 
> You have no idea how insane the crazy indentations are making me. Like. WHAT the heck. I'm trying to figure out how to mess with the HTML and CSS, but for tonight, I concede.
> 
> I hope you enjoy. This is some levity, after so many chapters of ache.

****The days that came after the bunker were raw and wonderful.  Wonderful because Friday’s father was _alive_.  Raw, because for a time--many times strung together--she thought that Rogers would be the thing that finally killed him.  Raw because Friday had perfect memory, and no matter the distance stretched between Boss and the bunker, she would remember it with crystal clarity until her code was lost..

 

         At the end of the day, the wonder won.

 

         “The Spider Kid is here.  Boss?” The holographic displays layered one on top of the other transformed the workshop into a patchwork of luminous blue.  Her voice didn’t even cause a twitch, so Friday waited a minute.  “BOSS.”

         “Hnn--what?”  Her father blinked up from the tangle of parts spilling out around him in all directions--at least, it looked like a tangle.  Obviously he had a plan and there was order in the chaos.

         Maybe.  

         For a moment, brown eyes blinked into the middle distance, forehead scrunching up, and then Boss pressed his thumbs against his eyes and rubbed.  “Did you say something, Friday?”

         “Yup. The Spider Kid is here.”

         And still--the face of endearing confusion.  “Doesn’t he have school?”

         “It’s Saturday.  Also, July.”

         “Ah.  Well…” He stretched, t-shirt pulling tight over the rim of the arc reactor.  The fidget of his hands stilled abruptly. She watched him scrape together a Stark Smile--the one for the press--but it wobbled, melting into something a little softer, closer maybe to what he’d give to Rhodey or to Dum-E.  “Let’s usher him into Wonderland. He’s got full access.”

         Friday did as he had asked while simultaneously checking on the nanite colony in his chest.

 

_"It’s like an ant farm, Honey Bear--who can be afraid of that?  Every eight year-old has an ant farm. Well, I didn’t, but you know--kids.  Every kid has an ant farm.”_

_"Yeah?  And what if they get loose and do who knows what to your insides?  People hate ants, Tones.”_

_“Tell that to Pim.  And ah, ah! I built the farm AND the ants, so there’s no way they’ll escape.  Were you the kid who burned ants with a magnifying glass? Say it isn’t so, Rhodey--that’s cruel and unusual.”_

_“I would have had to get near them.”_

_"Are you afraid of ants?”_

_“No--I WAS afraid of ants.  Any bug, really.”_

_“It sucks that Bug Dude is a known fugitive, ‘cause I could have so much fun with you and your NOT fear.”_

_“Promise me that what you’re about to do will be safe, and I’ll take you over to Pym's for a sleepover.”_

 

                  Friday observed the levels, relaxing minutely as they continued to hold steady.  

                  No one had known Boss was working on a way to combine nanites with the modified Extremis virus.  

                  Well--no one except Pepper.  Thank the everlasting Science Gods for that.  

 

##

 

_Pepper found them in the University Hospital at Heidelberg--which Friday and Vision had quickly decided was their best bet, despite it being a considerable distance from Siberia.  It was smack dab in the middle of allied ground, and was equipped with the most of what they needed._

_To save their father._

_Pepper barged her way inside, shouldering past nurses and administrative personnel who wanted her to stay in the guest areas and wait for word.  She kept pushing, smiling at some and dead-facing others, until she stood, pale and fierce in the halogen lighting of the operating theater._

_“I’m his healthcare proxy,” Pepper declared, thrusting an envelope at the nearest nurse.  Friday softly repeated her words in German, conscious of potential language barriers. “Before you do anything aside from life-saving measures, you need to be read into the plan.  His primary cardiologist is scrubbing up. Doctor Cho and her team should be here in just outside of an hour, but they’ll be waiting until the initial prep is finished before they get to work.  And the doctor in charge of the procedure is being airlifted in as we speak--ETA, twenty-three minutes.”_

_“Procedure,” echoed one surgeon.  Her hair was the kind of pale blonde that seemed to leech color from her skin while lending her the air of a porcelain doll.  This was just made worse by the blue of her scrubs almost matching her eyes exactly. But she held her head high, and there was a measured steadiness to her gaze that spoke of years of experience.  The tall line of her spine made Friday think that those years had seen more good than bad._

_Pepper lifted a briefcase from where it had been resting innocently at her feet, and squared her jaw._

_“Procedure.”  Pepper’s gaze didn’t stray to Boss, laid out on the table, nurses and doctors fluttering around him as they attempted to stop the major bleeds.  “If you cannot or will not sign the NDAs, then kindly say so now so we can bring in people who can.”_

_Glances were exchanged, but no one spoke up or moved forward.  The Porcelain Surgeon’s gaze held steady._

_Pepper nodded sharply.  “Good. This is going to take some time, and we’ll need a second team on standby.”_

_Friday sat back and took note._

 

_(This is how Pepper rules her part of the world)_

 

_Doctor Cho arrived soon after with the team from the U-GIN Genetic Research Facility, and the room filled up with newer, stranger machines, and people bent on one purpose._

 

**_Save Tony Stark._ **

 

_(I can work with this)_

 

_Bruce Banner entered the room, already scrubbed and gloved, his sharp eyes peering out from behind smudged lenses.  He just...walked in, like he had never left. Like Boss and Friday hadn’t lost all trace of him for several years--in spite of insane amounts of searching--only for him to pop back on radar half-way through Boss’s flight to the bunker._

 

_##_

 

                “He’s back?” Boss had asked, very much distracted by the threat of more Winter Soldiers, and his rising doubt that Rogers would accept his help.  “That’s awesome. I hope he stays far away from all of this.”

                Never once did he suggest that they should tap Bruce to fight for their side, or even get the wheels greased, hoping he would sign the Accords.

                The moment Vision sent an S.O.S. to Bruce’s unlisted phone, the man grabbed his things and ran for the rendezvous.

                He signed the Accords on the plane, pinching the bridge of his nose and murmuring, “Tony…”  when Friday pointed out the clause that was specially penned into being to better protect genetically enhanced or otherwise modified signees--including multiple individuals who share the same host.

 

##

 

_“Are we set?” Doctor Banner asked._

_Pepper stepped closer, her flats nearly soundless on the tile.  Those shoes were a concession to the situation, make no mistake.  That Pepper Potts would show up in public in jeans, a creased yellow blouse, and anything less than sky-high heels?  It was the first sign of a Noah’s Ark, world-ending-event level crisis._

_“Now that you’re here,” Pepper answered. They both moved to the side to make way for the precise movements of Doctor Cho’s technicians, busying themselves with the last of the prep._

_Bruce smiled, but it was more a warming of the eyes than anything to do with his mouth._

_“Right,” he said.  “For now, Stage 1 is installing the reactor.  If nothing goes wrong, and he’s stable, we then go to Stage 2, where we use the reactor to establish the colony.  The nanites should keep his sternum stable until we’re able to introduce Extremis into the mix. After the healing is well underway--and if Tony still wants it--we’ll use his notes to set up the mental link and activate the secondary protocols of Extremis.  Until then, the reactor is there to power the nanites.”_

_“He’ll want it,” Pepper said._

_Bruce nodded.  His spine was straighter than Friday remembered it ever being, and even though his face was a bit haggard, his eyes were clear and his gaze direct._

 

_(Space had done something for him)_

 

_“I think he will.  We still need to wait--I need consent for every portion of the process during which he’s conscious and aware.  Obviously you made the call this time, as his Proxy, but if all goes well, he’ll wake up soon. I want to talk to him then.”_

_A flicker of something passed across Pepper’s face.  “Thank you, Bruce. For coming, and for doing this.”_

_Bruce’s sneakers scuffed across the tile.  “I’d have been here sooner, Pepper. If I’d have been on Earth, or even in range, and heard he needed me, I would have come right away.”_

_“No one blames you for being kidnapped and forced into an arena.”  She reached out to grip his arm, but stopped, reeling it back in out of deference to his scrubbed hands.  “I’m glad you and the Big Guy are okay. I’m glad you’re here now.”_

_Bruce nodded, glancing down._

_“Tony might have been short on allies, and even shorter on friends,” Bruce said quietly.  “But that’s changing--it already has changed. It’s not going to happen again.”_

_The space between them charged with some sort of shared misery.  Pepper’s lips pressed together in a line, bloodless, even against her fair complexion.  “He was so alone,” she whispered. She didn’t cry, but her eyes were red, and her voice was thick._

_“He won’t be again,” Bruce said gently.  “Let’s jump this hurdle.” A fierce, furious gleam filled his eyes.  “And then we burn them out--leave them nowhere to hide.”_

_Pepper grinned.  “Smash?”_

_Friday caught it--seated as she was behind the array of sensors Vision had hurriedly set up for the surgery.  The moment when Bruce’s eyes flashed green. He grinned, and when he spoke, there was a strange, mixed resonance to his voice._

_“Hulk smash anyone who hurt friends.”_

_Green receded back to brown, but Bruce was still smiling._

_“We’re in agreement,” he said._

_Pepper’s laugh had a slightly hysterical edge, but the brightness of it popped like bubbles, lighting up the room._

_“Go get ‘em,” she said.  “I’ll be waiting outside, whenever you have an update, okay?  Take care of yourself too. Make sure to get some rest and some fluids, at least.”_

_Bruce nodded.  “Friday, will you remind me, please?”_

_Friday was surprised but delighted to help, even in such a small manner--not that she wasn’t going to be following each point of the procedures and working with the team to best channel their resources.  “I’ll be the cricket on your shoulder.”_

_A tiny bit of the hurt that had been left from the Avenger’s betrayal broke away and became something else._

_Friday didn’t trust Doctor Banner as a friend just yet.  An ally? She studied the image of Bruce and Hulk momentarily inhabiting the same face, and she saved it to her backups. Two allies for the price of one._

_(I can work with this)_

 

_The Porcelain Surgeon emerged the fray and approached Bruce.  There was a slight sloop in her posture now--born of weariness?  Or perhaps an emotional response. She nodded Bruce, neither moving to shake hands._

_“Doctor Banner?”_

_“Yes, hello.  You’ve been leading the charge?”_

_She nodded.  “I gladly pass that torch to you, I think we all feel a little...out of depth.”  Her English was perfect, spoken through a slightly thick accent. “I’m Doctor Haas, by the way.  Susanne.”_

_“I’m Bruce.  Let’s get to work.”_

 

_It was the last moment of quiet before the storm._

 

_##_

 

         Boss ran into Vision on his way through the kitchen.

         “Mister--”

         “Nah!  Na na nahhh!” Boss stuffed his fingers into his ears.  “What were you about to call me?”

         Vision _really_ had the bemused expression down, and he was using it now like a goddamn _boss_ .  “I was saying, Tony, that _myster-iously_ , there seems to be a spider at the door, sans his costume.”

 

_“So well played, bro.”_

_“Thank you.”_

_“Truly the dorkiest you’ve ever been.”_

_“Thank goodness I never set out to be the ‘cool kid’.”_

_“Did you just use air quotes?”_

_"I would never."_

_"Liar."_

 

         “He’s not a spider when he’s not in the suit,” Tony--nope!  Friday tried it and it just felt wrong to call him that--said.  He mimed zipping his lips. He further mimed detaching the zipper and throwing it away, so maybe he had the locking the mouth and zipping the lips gestures confused.

 

_“It’s clear who you take after, Vis.”_

 

         “But Mister Parker is holding it in his hands.  The suit, that is.”

         Friday studied the kid where he was still cooling his jets by the door.

         “Come on in, Peter.  I’ve already told you twice and I don’t have the processing capacity to do it again.  You’re always welcome here.”

         Peter’s face broke into a huge smile.  “Thanks, Friday! You’re so awesome, by the way. Do you think that at any point I could ask you some questions?  Just because you’re _so_ cool, and I don’t think I’ll ever get the chance to talk to anyone who’s like you, but I don’t--”

 

_“RED ALERT.  THIS IS A FAMILY-WIDE CRISIS.  I’m the only one who’s chill.”_

_In response, Vision’s mirth rippled across the connection._

 

         Friday laughed too--making sure to let it play through her speakers.  At the sound, Peter went very still, eyes wide.

         “Sure, I’d love to talk to you,” Friday said.  “For now, why don’t you run on inside? Boss is on his way.”

         Peter nodded, gripping his suit tighter.  “Right. But you for sure said yes?”

         “Yes.”

          Somehow, the smile grew.  “Awesome.”

 

         “Hey, Vision!”  Peter bounded over, bouncing up and down on his toes.  Friday wondered if he was always hyperactive, or if the trait had come with the transformation.  One edge of the suit flapped as he moved--a singed, ragged piece. Boss stared at it intently. Perhaps _too_ intently.

         “Mister Parker--”

         “Peter!” he blurted, a blush flaring out across his face and neck.  “Umm, that--no offense, Vision, really--but that makes it sound like I’m in trouble.  Like, Mister Morita is on his way.”

          Vision smiled.  “Peter, then. Will you stay for dinner?”

          The kid fidgeted, fingers pulling at the fabric.  “I mean. Well, I don’t want to--”

          “Stop.”  Boss lifted a hand.  “Nope. Whatever comes next is ridiculous.  You’re welcome here whenever, by the way--unless you’re gorgeous Aunt has raised some edict against it.  So. We’re going to take a look at the suit that you _clearly_ need a consult on, and then if it’s not too late, you’re having dinner with us.”  He put his hands on his hips--like it made him look more stern. It was maybe his least stern look.  

          “And if we’ve played too hard and it _is_ too late, you’re going to eat a sandwich while Happy drives you home.”  Boss paused. “Or you can stay here in your room--you have a room, by the way, did I not mention that?  I can see by your face that I didn’t mention it. Well, you do. It’s there. You’re going to eat, you should probably call Aunt May to update her on your plans, we’re going to fix your suit--are you getting any of this?”  He snapped his fingers.

 

         It was what Friday would later title **Car Crash Parenting**.  Just as it was apparently impossible for humans to drive past an accident without craning around to look at it, Friday and Vision--the almost-innocent bystanders in all of this--were mesmerized.  

          “Okay,” Peter croaked.

 

_(Yeah, I can work with this)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is un beta-ed (how do I spell that?), and if you notice mistakes, feel free to let me know!
> 
> The next chapter should bring in one of my favorite MCU minor (not in my mind) characters. Stay tuned. :)


	8. Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friday had witnessed Pepper, Happy--even Rhodey--on the receiving end of such a thought stream, and had watched the wrinkle form between their eyes as they tried and failed to keep up. 
> 
> Peter seemed to have no such issue, which was fantastic, because Boss wasn’t done. 
> 
> _______  
> The phone keeps ringing, people keep showing up--that's the good and the bad of it. Meanwhile, Friday's world grows and grows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been forever and I've been sitting on most of this chapter--I actually cropped out a huge piece to use in the next one. Those of you who are still with me are saintly, patient creatures. <3 I appreciate all your comments, and your love, even though I haven't been able to reply to them. Anxiety is a bitch, man.
> 
> This thing isn't as fluid as I'd like--it gets a little cracky, and you'll see what I mean--but I figure you'd rather have a chapter than no chapter. I'm so fond of these characters! Hope you enjoy.

 

         “Everett Ross is on the phone, Boss.”

         “Sure he is,” Boss muttered, scrubbing a hand through the already too-greasy stands of his hair.  

Friday could see the grease. She didn’t need cameras, she could _sense_ it.  

         “Even if I manage to trade one Ross for the other, both of them are as gabby as a mall kiosk guy.  Plus, Ross 2.0 _really_ doesn’t appreciate my hold music.  Sinner.” This was followed by a 5.6 second sigh.  “Patch him th-- _HOLD, Friday_.”  

Boss’ eyes darted to Peter, snuggled up on the couch in a nest of AP Euro flashcards and Gummy Bears--the candy was clustered into an elaborate reward system that made zero sense to Friday, even after _repeated_ explanations.  Perhaps it was _how_ Peter had tried to explain it--tongue working around a half-masticated glob of the stuff.  

He was in jeans and a light blue t-shirt with a broccoli yeti on the front--no Spidey mask in sight.  

The spike in Boss’ heart rate filled Friday’s sensors.

         “I’ll take it in the office--let him know I’ll be there in a sec, kay Fri?”

         “Of course.”

Boss crossed the room, bare feet planting in a snowfall of shag carpet to better loom over the kid, who stared back with wide eyes.

         “What’s up?” Peter asked, soldiering through the notable crack in his voice with a wince that clearly said he was dying inside.  His left hand drummed against the truly-distressed (not stylized) leg of his jeans.

Boss didn’t acknowledge any of it, he was a rock--even if a muscle in his cheek jumped, and he took a moment to answer.   

         “We need more defined security measures for you--when you’re Peter Parker--Stark Intern #27, wunderkind extraordinaire,” Tony said. His face was half-way between grave and amused--which must be confusing.  It confused Friday.

         “And--AND, you’ve got to stay away from Avengers’ video calls when you aren’t masked up.” His words sped up as Boss built up a head of steam, mouth barely shaping them before he was on to the next.  Like gummy bears, only self-generated.

Friday had witnessed Pepper, Happy--even Rhodey--on the receiving end of such a thought stream, and had watched the wrinkle form between their eyes as they tried and failed to keep up.  

Peter seemed to have no such issue, which was fantastic, because Boss wasn’t done.  No, instead came nearly five minutes of various plans, concerns, observations, all leading to him visibly shaking himself and smiling at the kid.

         “We’ll work out a system--a light blinking outside a room when there’s a hot call,” he finished.

         “Okay,” said Peter, nodding.  “That all sounds great! Thanks, Mister Stark.”

         Boss squinted.  “Unless you want to go public?”

Peter’s hand missed a beat and he made Peter Face--the one like he was trying to square his jaw, but which ended up looking like he was attempting to hide a jawbreaker in there.

_(Peter Face had its own image folder)_

         “I--” He hesitated, taking time to choose the words.  “I think maybe I will tell everyone one day. At some point, I’ll...I’ll be able to do more good that way I think--I mean, maybe?”  One shoulder shrugged. “Not yet, though.”

For a long moment they regarded each other.  Then Boss clapped his hands and they both flinched.

         “It’s your choice to make, Pete.  Mask or not, we’ll support you.”

         Peter’s eyes shone.  “Thanks, Mister Stark.”

 

###

 

The last quarter hour had seen Boss working on the Quinjet update.  A detailed diagram spun in holoview behind his chair, shifting with each bit of fine-tuning.  

His eyes were shut.

         “What does it feel like?” Friday finally asked.

After a while, he shook himself, eyes fluttering open to reveal a ring of fire circling each iris. They pulsed faintly before settling back into solid brown.

         “Fast,” Boss said.  One hand tapped against the smudged leg of his jeans.  “Like the training wheels are finally off. Should it bother me, do you think?”  His tone was light, but there was true concern riding just under the surface.

         “Why should it bother you?” Friday asked.

         “Well. It’s not really--” Tony stopped himself, a frown pulling his face.  “It’s not really normal, is it?”

         “Nope.”  Friday stretched out a finger of code and... _poked_ him, watching in delight as he startled.

She did it again, giggling, wishing that Vision wasn’t off making connections with Xavier’s people.  He and Friday had agreed to keep contact via their private channel to a minimum while he was on this assignment.  They weren’t sure if it was possible for their network to be picked up by the telepaths at the School. Vision was a synthroid with an utterly unique neural matrix, and Friday was an advanced Stark AI whose “mind map” had drastically morphed into unconventional pathways since she and Vision had begun talking.

Their private interactions might operate on a similar level as commonly understood telepathic communication--much like Asgardian magic was apparently science that humans didn’t understand yet.  

         (This was according to Thor, who was a brawler, not even sort of a magician, and for all that his people were SO ADVANCED, didn’t seem to grasp the danger of a power surge in a secure building which relied on electricity to to remain secure)

In any case, if Friday and Vision’s conversations could be overheard, it would be a massive security risk.  It could also be seen as rude--Vision not showing his hosts his undivided attention--so it was better to be safe than sorry.

They wanted Mutants to be a vital part of the Accords updates, to have the chance to speak for their own rights, not just through a proxy, and it would be awful if that all failed due to a breach in etiquette.  

It really was too bad, though--Vision would enjoy this moment.

         “Quit it!” Boss laughed, as she poked him again.  “That feels like...like a...like--” His tongue clicked oddly.

         “Boss?”

         “Like...like...” He sucked in a sharp breath.

All his readings were fine--elevated, but this wasn’t a heart attack, wasn’t a pulmonary embolism.

         ( _Was it a panic attack?)_

_Click._

         “BOSS.”  

He glanced up.  Usually Boss was the only person other than Vision to address her without looking at the ceiling, but he did look up then, and Friday was gifted a perfect view of dilated pupils and rings of orange.  They shivered wider, then shrunk back, shivered wider, over and over, like his body was stuck straddling the threshold to the Extremis neuralink.

         (I  _don’t know how to treat him like a machine)_

         “Can I reboot it?” Friday asked.  “The Extremis, Boss--can I reboot it?”

He nodded, slumping back in the chair, arms flopping onto the armrests, scrabbling around with curled fingers until he finally got a grip.

         “Okay.” Friday considered it.  

Carefully, so carefully, she inserted herself into the code that surrounded the Extremis neuralink, casting out to DUM-E and U, asking them to make sure their father didn’t fall from his chair.  

The bots rolled forward, all nervous beeps, and herk-and-jerk arm movements as they took their stations at their father’s side.  He didn’t seem to see them--and that was worrying, Friday wouldn’t lie. Butterfingers meeped in alarm from her charging station.

_(“Is Tones-Father sad?”_

_“No,”_ Friday assured her sister. _“Not sad--he’s having a glitch.”_

_“Can you smooth him?”_

_“I’m going to try.”)_

         “Hang on, Boss.”

Friday force-stopped the Extremis’ main program, gripping it tightly and forcing its branches not to try to ferret out a source issue and possibly alter brain tissue.  She manually directed it to WAIT for the reboot to finish before they even THOUGHT about acting.

         ( _Please, please, PLEASE work)_

A phantom feeling enveloped her, like warmth, like connection, like--

Twined together with the neuralink, and her father’s brain as she was, it took a moment before Friday understood what she was feeling.

_Touch._

Friday felt strong arms around her, around her not-body, like the hug she’d given Vision when she had been in the suit, only _she_ felt it too. It was easy enough to follow his work--he had brought up a directory of what looked like sense memories (and who knew Extremis would be so thorough when cataloging his mind.  It could be B.A.R.F.'s influence).

This was a Jarvis hug--Edwin Jarvis, circa 1979.  A ghost wrapped around Friday, enveloping her with the memory of what Jarvis’ arms felt like, at how Tiny-Boss felt _\--_

_safe and_

_small and_

_Don’t go, please! and_

_I wish, I wish..._

_“It’s alright, Friday,"_ her father murmured through their shared code. _"I’m okay--you did so good, thank you, you did so good.  I just need another minute.”_

         “Sure, Boss.”

          _(So do I)_

He kept the hug going until long after the reboot was complete.  When he pulled away, it was reluctantly. Just as Boss’ mind disconnected from the neuralink, Friday heard him breath a promise.

_“We’re gunna be okay.”_

         “I know we are,” Friday said, speaking out loud as her father’s eyes fluttered open--dark and so warm.  “We have you.”

The memory of the hug did something.  It woke something up inside her, stretched something out so that it pulled taut, taut, vibrating like a bow string.

_(I want that, I want to feel more of that)_

_(I want something that's mine)_

 

###

 

         “Boss, you have a private call.”

It was the first time in almost twenty-seven hours that a Ross wasn’t on the line.

         “Yeah?  Who?” There was a smudge of what appeared to be mustard on the collar of his t-shirt.

         “What?”

         “Who is it calling?”

          “They’re waiting.”

Fixing her nearest camera with a Look, he sighed.

          “Hook me up then, Fri.”

A screen popped into existence on top of their current project diagram, a Darth Vader head filling the majority of the frame.  The helmet canted to one side as the villain peered at them curiously.

          “Mechanic,” said the head--with impressive voice modulation.  “I see that you’ve grown even older since last we spoke. Or maybe...you just look worse.”

         “My god,” Boss breathed, his eyes shining.  “I thought the small humans gained maturity and perspective once they were no longer...bite-sized.”

Harley tugged off the helmet--upsetting a riot of golden curls that should have made him angelic--and hucked it somewhere out of view.  The corners of his mouth tugged down into a scowl that didn’t register anywhere else on his face.

         “Is that what you’ve been holding out for?” Harley asked, eyebrows drawing together.  “You’re hoping that if some day, upon finally reaching five foot eight, the heavens will open up and Santa will declare that you’re an adult?”

         “I think I want to hear more about this Santa-based afterlife.”

         The teen rolled his eyes.  “You’re naughty or nice, he stalks your every move, multiple cultures believe in him, there’s deer that...factor in somehow--how is that not god?”

         Boss leaned forward, bracing his weight on his elbows.  “What do deer have to do with anything?”

         “What am I, a theology class?”  Harley asked.

         With a little shake of his head, Boss sat back.  His lips twitched. “I think it’s pretty clear that you aren’t.”

Harley scowled at him EVEN MORE, and the two regarded each other with similar sets of flaring nostrils.

         “Mechanic,” he said again, this time in his own voice.  It was a good voice--Friday wanted to listen to it more.

         “Minion,” Boss answered.  “It’s good to hear from you.”

         “Well--”  There was this snooty little thing that Harley was doing--tilting his head back to look at Boss from across the length of his own nose.  “--I had a question about a project I’m working on.”

         “Mmm, and what is this project?”

         “A bike.”

         “A--like a pedal bike?” One eyebrow raised.

         “No, like a _bike_ bike.  A motorcycle.”

         “You’re...building a motorcycle, or you’re modifying an existing one?”

         “A little of both.”  Harley spoke with Supreme Nonchalance.  “I’ve got an old Honda CB550/4, and I’m using that as the shell, mostly.”

         “You’re hollowing out a CB550/4?” Now Boss truly sounded intrigued.  “What was wrong with it? That’s not a bad machine--not a gold star, but it could be worse.”

         “Nothing was wrong with it,” said Harley, “except that I can do better.”

_(Holy crap, this kid)_

         “Is that right.  What’re we talking about?”

         “Get ready.”  Harley bobbed in place, curls bobbing with him.  Vital records insisted that this kid was sixteen.  

         ( _Maybe genius just age at a different rate)_

         Boss propped his chin on steepled fingers.  “Oh, I’m ready.”

         “Turbine engines and a permanent magnet motor.”

         “Ambitious.”

         “With the power of a V8 and 0-120 mph in eleven seconds.”

         “Jesus.  I’m not ready.  DUM-E!” The bot rolled over.  “Smelling salts!” Boss snapped his fingers.

         “Not sure if that’s wise,” Friday interjected.

         “Who’s that?” asked Harley.

         Boss snapped his fingers again, this time with a sweeping gesture.  “Harley, this is Friday. Friday, this is my minion.”

         “A pleasure,” she said.

         “Hey, what’d you do with Jarvis?”

The room became so quiet that it was a roar.  Friday saw the moment when Harley recognized that he had roller-bladed into a minefield.

It was also the moment when DUM-E sprayed Boss in the face with the fire extinguisher.

         “I have myself to blame.”  Tony wiped himself off with a hot pink rag that the bot had brought along in a moment of true foresight.  “Thanks, buddy. My fainting spell has passed.”

         “Could you show me a picture of this bike, Harley Keener?” Friday asked.

         The kid’s nose scrunched.  “You can call me Harley--and sure.  Lemme find a good one…”

         “I can’t wait to see it, Harley Keener.”

         “Tony.  Tony, why is she like this?”

         “I’m a Leo.”

Harley finally visited the Compound seventeen days later--after an intense and fruitful FaceTime with Mrs. Keener.  Apparently she was plenty fine with her genius son working off some creative steam in a space a bit better suited for it than her garage.

 

###

 

Peter and Harley met on a Wednesday.  To be honest--the event wasn’t nearly as dramatic as Friday had hoped.  

They didn’t collide in the doorway of the Lab.

Spider-Man didn’t accidentally climb through Harley’s bedroom window and get a potato to the face.

A mis-scheduled appointment didn’t pop up to bring both boys into Boss’ orbit at the same time.

No.  None of that exciting stuff went down--the real world was BORING.  

This was what happened: Harley spotted a handwritten note on the calendar that Boss kept on his desk (mostly for SI stuff, so he would have no excuse to offer Pepper).  

**PETE’S Robotics Club--Workshop (1-5 PM--Nov 13th)...bring snacks?  Orange slices? Do kids eat oranges?**

That was all the tip-off that Harley needed to begin ferreting out contact information like a far less-offensive Shield agent.

         Peter answered the phone with a distracted, “Ya?”

         “Peter Parker--I’m Harley Keener.  I believe we have mutual interests.”

         “Potato Gun Harley?” Peter had replied.

         “Yup.”

         “So, you’re like...his apprentice?”

         Harley hummed.  “Seems like it. So you’re like...his protege?”

         A pause.  “I guess so.”

_(“What’s the difference between protege and apprentice?” Friday had asked Vision._

_After considerable research, they came to the following conclusion:_

_Protege and Apprentice were two equally vital roles, each being filled by a boy who could never--not EVER--be replaced)_

Friday made a note of the designations.

That was that.  

A couple days later, Harley left the Compound, chauffeured by Happy in the direction of the city to meet Pete at a Taco Bell in neutral territory.   

They returned and made a beeline to the workshop, where they were entirely unsupervised--excepting Friday--seeing as it was the third day in a row that Accords Meetings holding Boss, Vision (having succeeded in winning over the Professor, if not the X-Men--not yet), and Rhodey hostage at the Wakandan embassy across town for the better part of the day.

Friday was proud that nothing exploded, and that only one mini fridge had to be decommissioned after being contaminated by carbolic acid.

 

###

 

         “Vision.  What do you think?”

 _“What should I do?”_ her brother asked her.  

Their private channel lit up with the quavering note of Vision’s rising panic.  If it were possible--digitally, or in his physical form--Vision would be sweating.

_“Well.  That depends.  You know what--pick a side.  Just don’t waffle on it, and you’ll be fine.”_

         “Well?  The clock is ticking here, Vis, and I can see an opinion forming all over your face.”  Boss tapped his foot, lifted an eyebrow, and Vision’s code _wailed_.  “What do you think?”

Vision wrung his hands.

         ( _Wrung his freaking hands_ , the wuss)

         “I think that...you both wear it well.”

 _"Boooooo…”_ Friday catcalled, tempted to do it out loud too.   _“You’re such a waffle!”_

         Doctor Strange just smirked.  “He’s clearly trying to soften the fall for you, Stark.  That’s a point to me.”

         “No, no--NO!” Her father’s arms flailed.  “You can’t deduce a win _from his expression_!  It’s words or nothing, Salazar.” Boss’ voice went more and more shrill.  “I rocked this look on GQ before you were even in SCRUBS.”

         “And yet,” said Strange, eyes glittering--he was totally enjoying this, the troll-- “you have been surpassed.  And honestly, at this point, I’m not even trying.”

         “God dammit-- _Vis_.”  Tony whirled, almost wild in comparison to the doctor’s reserve, and Vision startled back a step.  “Is his goatee better than mine?”

         “I--”  Vision faltered again, and Friday knew it was partly that he couldn’t figure out how sincere this question was, and how much of it was a joke.  “I’m unaware of just what I’m judging this on--is it the shape? The proportion to your faces? The color of the hair, the distribution?” The panic was actually visible now in the way his eyes skittered between them.  “Perhaps the tidiness--but you both seem to take equal effort in--”

Strange began to laugh.  He stooped a bit at the waist, and the sound came out a little wheezy--like a door on creaking hinges.  The Cloak’s shoulders rose and fell out of rhythm with his own, and it took Friday a minute to realize that the Cloak was laughing too.

**(Notation: Magic isn’t JUST science.  Boss should have asked LOKI, not Thor.  Like Thor could even tell his own ass from magic)**

         “Doctor,” Friday called out, “does your cloak have a name?”

The garment in question sort of preened with its own edges.

         “The Cloak of Levitation,” Strange said.

         “Okay, cool.  But does it have a  _name_?” Friday pressed.

         “...No?”

He was promptly pummeled by fabric punches.

         “What’s happening?” Boss whispered.

         "The Wizard is getting trounced," Friday whispered back.

         “The Cloak wants a given name,” said Vision.

         He was promptly side-eyed.  “Would _you_ like a given name, Vis?” Boss asked.

         Vis appeared surprised.  “I’m fond of my name.” He hesitated.  “Perhaps a last name. I’d like one of those.”

         Boss nodded.  “You’re welcome to use Stark--if you wanted to, I mean, I realize that a lot of people would hate to--  It’s not really a good name to-- I’m just--”

         “I would like to be a Stark,” Vision said, his smile soft.

         “You already are, Vis.  You’re family. It’s yours if you want to take it officially, but it’s totally your choice.”

         “I choose it.  Thank you, Tony.”

         “This is a lovely moment, and I hate to interrupt, but do you perhaps have a baby name book that we could borrow?”  

They all looked to Strange, who was now wrapped up in the Cloak and was being...gently strangled?

         “He doesn’t have a name?” Friday asked.

         “It has several,” Strange said, voice growing increasingly-winded as they continued to speak.  “But apparently none of them suit, and it’s never been allowed to pick one for themselves--OWW, dammit!”

The Cloak loosened its grip apologetically, rippling oddly around him.

         “What is life?” Boss asked, throwing a few dozen web pages at the Doctor’s face before going for take-out menus.

         "A series of accidents," Strange drawled.  

         Boss jabbed a finger at him.  "I like you.  Pizza or Thai?"

         Strange huffed, but under the flush of near-strangulation, he was clearly smiling.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it isn't clear, I really know nothing about computer processes or motorcycles. But what fun to pretend! And to have an excuse to research things.


End file.
